


Anything You Can Do (I Can Do Better)

by astrosaur



Category: Sexy Zone
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 03:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11523903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrosaur/pseuds/astrosaur
Summary: When you have a lifelong rival, you can't back down against him on any challenge - that includes proving who's more secure with his sexuality.





	Anything You Can Do (I Can Do Better)

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a self-challenge to write 5 fics inspired by 5 songs in different genres. Genre 5 is Broadway, song performed by Ethel Merman and Howard Keel.

                It normally takes ten seconds of Kento emitting appreciative, unearthly sounds inspired by what he’s reading, before it infringes on the bounds of Fuma’s tolerance. Maybe fifteen seconds, if Fuma’s in a particularly good mood. By the look in his face, that isn’t the case.

                “She told his best friend,” Kento explains to his souring expression, as if Fuma were on the edge of his seat waiting for plot updates. “His best friend! Ahhhh, I can’t take it! I’m done for.” Overwhelmed by his own emotions, Kento puts down his book and proceeds to pound its cover repeatedly with his palm.

                Fuma’s mouth twitches tellingly with the makings of a chuckle, but he won’t let Kento’s dubious leanings go without comment. “There is a reason that the genre is called ‘shoujo,’ not that that’s ever stopped you before.”

                “My tastes know no gender,” Kento says airily.

                “I always had my suspicions, but I’m proud of you for finally coming out to me.”

                Luckily, Kento hasn’t let himself be bothered by those types of jokes in years. He struts over to where Fuma is sitting on the couch and plants himself on the arm rest. “Aw, you’re bothered by how comfortable I am with my sexuality. That’s cute.” He reaches out and takes Fuma’s cheeks between his fingers and pinches none-too-gently.

                Fuma bats him away, reminding him that he wore that skirt onstage along with the rest of the group in their latest concert. He conveniently forgets to add the part where he griped at liberty about it.

                “You’ve worn way more ridiculous things of your own volition, but that’s not the point. The point is, you’d have to be held at gun point to do anything but play it up for laughs.”

                “If that were true, our combination wouldn’t be half as popular,” Fuma points out. He is every bit a professional servicer of fans, so to speak, flirting with the best of them to successfully bait that side of the fandom. “The only difference between you and me is I don’t feel the need to actively convince fans that I really, truly want inside the entire entertainment industry’s pants.”

                “No, it’s alright.” Kento slings an arm over Fuma’s shoulders, patting the one on the far side. “It’s not your fault for interpreting it that way, we were all raised in a society that exclusively assigns affection as a feminine trait.”

                “Thanks, but I didn’t need a sociology degree to know that.” He doesn’t physically shrug Kento off – a handful of military precision words can do the trick for him. “What I want to know is why you’re so dead set on showing us how comfortable you are with your sexuality.”

                Kento snickers. “You’re not making any sense.”

                “You’re burying the truth by exaggerating it,” Fuma translates. “I know you. Don’t forget that. Maybe you’re not interested in banging every single Junior or sempai who looks your way, like you would let everyone believe. But you definitely wouldn’t say no to about five or six of them, by my estimate.”

                This time Kento does pull back a little, dragging his hand along the line of Fuma’s shoulders and letting it to rest below the nape of his neck. He mainly does it to show Fuma his bemused expression. “Really, that’s your big revelation when you see me doing my job? Kikuchi, listen, here’s the thing about our societal norms: it’s on you to conscientiously resist years of patriarchal framing in order to – hey!” He cuts himself off as he notices Fuma’s face getting closer to his.

                “What are you doing?” Kento stammers, leaning away, arms retreating to his side. He accidentally tips himself backwards to create space between them, but Fuma gets an arm around him to keep him in place. “What–?!”

                “Shut up, Nakajima.”

                Fuma continues to advance on him, head tilted up to make his intent obvious. It dawns on Kento what Fuma’s up to, and he steels himself as best as he can. But when the bastard closes his eyes and puckers his lips, Kento can’t contain a squeak and jumps clear off the sofa.

                Fuma laughs mercilessly at his skittishness. “Aw, you’re afraid of kissing a man. That’d be cute if it weren’t so homophobic.”

                The assessment couldn’t be more false or less fair, in Kento’s opinion. Looking to retaliate, he goes with his first instinct – he places his hands on either side of Fuma’s lap, caging him in with taut arms. He leans in with none of the slow suspense Fuma used on him, and the latter’s reflexes kick in at once. He literally dodges Kento’s advances by throwing himself sideways into the couch.

                Kento barks out his own vindictive laugh. “Hah!”

                “You looked like you were about to eat me,” Fuma informs him. “And for the record, one of us in this room has standards.”

                “I’m sorry, did you say something? I didn’t hear anything except for ‘kissing another guy is too much of a threat on my manhood.’”

                Fuma responds by grabbing Kento by the back of his neck, yanking them down so they’re face-to-face again, noses brushing against each other. They hold their pose in tense, unmoving silence, fraught with anxiety that bars them from laughing at how they’re both going slightly cross-eyed to sustain their staring contest.

                Kento eventually breaks the standstill. “Can’t do it, can you?” He means to taunt Fuma, but his wavering voice doesn’t have the required impact.

                “Your breath,” Fuma groans in response.

                “What?” Kento asks, defensive. “I just ate oranges!”

                “It’s _hot_.”

                “So’s yours!”

                Stubborn to a fault, Fuma doesn’t budge one way or the other, and that obviously means Kento can’t back down, either. And before he knows it, he’s made the terrifying leap, and has his lips pressed resolutely against Fuma’s.

                While it may technically be classified as a kiss, it’s far more competitively charged than anything. Fuma goes on the offensive, teasing the edges of Kento’s mouth, daring to working it open. Kento stifles a sound of half-surprise, half-protest and stands his ground, granting access all while reining in his instinctual panic. It takes them a while, but they soon ease up, realizing that clacking teeth and snagging lips could be avoided.

                Somewhere in the back of their minds, they could acknowledge that they’re idiots going through with a dare nobody asked them to do, and doing it as if their very lives depended on it. The truth is, some of the most fun they have is in trying to best the other. And now, the thrill of their favorite pastime is being accompanied by the physical sensation of kissing the one person who’s been trained to react accordingly to their every move.

                They’re barely touching anywhere besides their joined lips, but their synchronous give-and-take is more than exhilarating. They settle into a rhythm that should be at least twice as awkward than it actually is, all things considered. In place of awkwardness, there’s merely mild wonderment at the sensate differences in kissing a boy, and even then it barely registers as an afterthought.

                When Kento pulls away, it’s strictly to fill his lungs of the breath he was deprived of. “It’s a draw,” he says before he even finishes that first oxygen intake, not wanting Fuma to get any inaccurate ideas on why he put an end to it.

                For his part, Fuma isn’t one to claim a victory he hasn’t earned. “This does not leave this room.”

                “It’s not like I want to tell anyone about this.” Kento fixes his hair, busying himself with something to focus on.

                “Afraid of what they’ll think of you?” Fuma challenges, never too out-of-sorts to make mischief.

                “You’re the one who just said to shut up about it!”

                “Whatever.” Before Kento can heave a sigh of relief that all is dealt with, nipped at the bud before things can escalate, Fuma inquires, “So, how are we settling this?”

 

-

 

                Nakajima Kento and Kikuchi Fuma are the stuff of idol symmetry legend. All the Heisei groups and current crop of Juniors look to them in awe, see them perform onstage and interact offstage, and they all think, _Step aside, YamaChine._ They think, _Akakame who?_

                That’s what Kento and Fuma assume, anyway – if their contemporaries don’t feel this way, they’re plain wrong. Who else celebrates their birthdays and work anniversaries within a week of each other? Who else were each other’s sole constants from the day they entered the agency, to the day the debuted, up to an unknown, distant future? Who else was so devoted to their rivalry that he willed his body to develop a year in advance, so that the pair of them would always be roughly the same size? (That last one is Kento’s theory and not a fact, but nobody can convince him that it’s a coincidence that he never got to look the full year older than Fuma that he is.)

                All of that stemmed from a mutual drive to stay at each other’s level. At first, their younger minds framed it as wanting to defeat the other at every turn, and it was cause for avoidable friction. Later, both of them began to cherish having someone in their lives who pushes them to be better, as well as being able to reciprocate that role. When they glean the more complete meaning of their rivalry, things become a lot more consistently friendly between them, though no less intense. It’s the reason they can get along so well in their adulthood, without giving up their obsessive compulsion to compete with one another.

                As it turns out, this pattern also applies to testing each other’s sexual fluidity.

                It begins innocently, more or less. Their provocations range from mildly teasing to juvenile mockery. Soon, however, Fuma takes it to newer, more adrenaline-pumping heights. His casual touches turn impertinent, fingers occasionally skipping past the hem of Kento’s shirt. Accordingly, Kento ups his game, graduating from inviting Fuma to share straws with him to asking for help with his most obscene costumes.

                It begins innocently, but the fall from there is steep and unforgiving.

                One night, egged on by the memory of fingers trailing teasingly up the side of his ribs, Kento sneaks into Fuma’s hotel room and unceremoniously wraps himself around the resting figure on the bed. Fuma snuffles, half-awake. Kento only crawls closer, throwing a leg over his hip.

                Fuma jolts awake with a grown man plastered to his back, long limbs binding him. “What the hell.”

                Kento grins to himself. He recalls the morning’s events, and how every fiber in his body had been wanting to scream bloody murder for Fuma to stop touching him. And it wasn’t even that it felt bad or gross. It did feel strange, for a fraction of a second, thanks to an untimely flashback of the prepubsecent version of the person groping him. But it was mostly affecting because he hadn’t found it _strange enough_ , and that had been the most unbearable part about it.

                Now, wound around Fuma like a provocative octopus, Kento believes it’s his turn to snatch a semblance of victory. He plays up their position, rocking his hips forward and delighting in the other’s corresponding squirm. “Do you want me to stop? Say you give up and I’ll let go.”

                “I was sleeping.” Fuma looks over his shoulder. “Didn’t expect to wake up to someone so worked up that he needed to dry-hump me in my sleep. Is that enough for you, not even getting touched? You want me to reach back, and you can fuck my hand?”

                Generally speaking, Kento has no strong opinions of dirty talk one way or the other, but he has to discreetly adjust himself so that Fuma doesn’t feel the effects of his efforts. “If it’s you, I don’t need to be touched,” he strikes back, bringing his lips right next to Fuma’s ear. “Just let me hold you, baby.”

                He thinks his brilliant finishing touch would do the trick, but Fuma stays still against expectations, letting Kento spoon him. Kento waits with bated breath as Fuma gears up to say what could only be heinously foul and/or smutty, when a loud knock at the door causes them to spring apart from each other.

                Sou barely reacts to seeing Kento in Fuma’s bed, let alone in his room. He smiles at them like they’re meant to be where they are, and asks to borrow Fuma’s phone charger. Kento makes sure to mutter how lucky Fuma is that Sou came to save him in the nick of time.

 

-

 

                As evenly matched as Kento and Fuma are, it’s always Fuma who gets to point out the telltale coloring in Kento’s cheeks, or the sheen of sweat that he summons onto Kento’s skin with notable regularity. Fuma’s body is not as liable to pass out hints of his innermost workings, definitely not in the way Kento’s does. It wouldn’t matter if their push-and-pull is throwing him off at least as much (and Kento suspects that it is). What matters is that if Fuma can conceal his misgivings long enough, it’s his battle to win.

                Fuma’s fully aware of his natural physical advantage in their game, too, and he tells Kento as much. “I almost feel bad that you’re so easy,” he says one day, after randomly biting Kento’s earlobe and causing him to nearly fall off from his chair.

                Kento has to even the score if he is to emerge victorious in their contest of wills. It’s high on his agenda when the two of them are crammed in a booth with some crew members who invited them out for drinks. They’d just completed their last show in the city, and they go out to celebrate, knowing the next day has a five-hour bus ride in store for them, and there’d be time to catch up on sleep then.

                Fuma says something that makes them all giggle, and makes Kento in particular double over from laughing too hard. Kento marches them right back into the middle of their sexuality-affirming war by draping himself over Fuma’s side as he recovers from his full-body laugh.

                Fuma tenses, but he doesn’t spare a glance at him. It only spurs Kento to raise the stakes, bringing one hand to his face and stroking his cheekbone lightly.

                The rest of the table finds nothing too unusual about the display, even though Fuma and Kento had never done anything like it in their presence. They’ve worked with the pair for several years and counting and are accustomed to their hot-and-cold routine.

                When Kento somehow cuddles him even closer, Fuma’s façade cracks, and he looks a little frustrated, not to mention a lot annoyed. Kento has to hold back from cackling right in his face.

                “Knock it off,” Fuma says from the side of his mouth, so that only Kento can hear him.

                “Am I bothering you?” Kento asks, not nearly as quiet. He drops his head on Fuma’s shoulder and emphatically strokes his chest in a way that ensures it’s in view of the entire table. “I can’t help it. No matter how close you are, you’re still too far, baby.”

                It’s the pet name that earns the staff’s intrigue. Fuma catches the curious glances waiting on his reaction. He manages to school his face into a neutral expression before standing up and shaking Kento off. “Learn to deal with it. I have to go to the bathroom.”

                Fuma has to know he won’t get a lot of time to himself no matter where he deems to escape, because Kento would be on his tail to claim his victory. After all, as with most bets between the two of them, they were playing for nothing more than bragging rights.

                Kento bursts through the bathroom door before Fuma can turn the faucet on, crowing, “You got owned!” He sweeps the area cursorily, ensuring no one’s around to eavesdrop on them, before breaking out a shit-eating grin. “The big, bad Kikuchi Fuma ran away from sweet talking and had to hide in the bathroom!”

                “Perfect, now the staff thinks you followed me in here so you can have your wicked way with me,” Fuma complains, regardless of the 99% chance he’d have done the same thing in Kento’s position.

                Kento waves him off. “Relax, I told them I needed to call my mom. Which I may do after this, so I can tell her how I won so hard it’s scary. Seriously, I was going to time how long it would take for you to flee, but you didn’t even give me a chance to start the clock.”

                “You didn’t win, you cheated,” Fuma says, teeth grinding.

                “I’m sorry you couldn’t handle it, babe.”

                “We’re not checking who can handle PDA best. You can have that.”

                “Good, you’re conceding.”

                “All I’m conceding is that you grew up to be an exhibitionist. For the other matter, you can’t change the rules midway when the competition gets too tough for you.”

                Kento crosses his arms, back leaning on the wall. “Rules? What rules? When did those happen?”

                “If we were allowed to do this in public the whole time, I would’ve won at least five times last month.” Fuma leans on his side, facing Kento and mirroring his somewhat impudent stance. “Or did you think I forgot about you wiggling your way out every time someone barged into our dressing room?”

                Kento shakes his head dismissively. “Those don’t count.”

                “Then neither does this,” Fuma throws back. “If public shit counted, we’d need to keep score, and I haven’t been tallying every single time you said we had to stop so that we didn’t traumatize the kids.”

                Kento rolls his eyes. “Let’s start a tally, then.”

                “Fine. I’ll even give you that point today so you have a head start.”

                Kento wants to say he doesn’t need it, but Fuma yanks him forward by his shirtfront before he can get a word in.

                “Don’t get used to the lead.”

                “What about—”

                “They already think something nefarious is going on in here,” Fuma cuts him off again. “Might as well make it true.”

 

-

 

                Kento supposes that one of them is bound to have a sexual identity crisis any day now. A part of him thinks they may already be overdue for it. But rather than question what their activities might say about himself, Kento chooses to focus his anxiety on how he and Fuma might be endangering their dynamics.

                The mature thing to do would be to bring it up before they let everything get out of hand, or before one of them does something they’ll regret. The thing is, it’s easier said than done when the idea of a moment of glory is ten times more seductive than the remote threat of irrevocable damage.

                He can’t figure out the right course of action by himself, especially when the situation involves not one, but two strong-willed Type A personalities. So he sets out to do the oftentimes Sisyphean task of getting Fuma to talk about a serious matter that the latter isn’t ready to initiate himself. He finds Fuma in his hotel room tinkering with his laptop, and mentally activates Leader Mode as he plops himself down on the mattress next to Fuma.

                Fuma continues to fiddle around with his laptop, eyes trained forward. Kento readies to launch a carefully constructed speech about their escalating audacity with each other’s bodies, but he’s caught off-guard when Fuma’s computer screen is suddenly filled by two naked men. He turns away immediately, but not quickly enough to miss that one’s head bobbing up and down enthusiastically between the other’s legs.

                “Really?” Kento looks at Fuma skeptically, eyes strictly on his face so they don’t stray to the laptop screen. He notes that the video conveniently started in the middle, meaning Fuma must have had it cued up for this purpose. “Where did you even get that?” He should probably be thankful that Fuma didn’t acquire such materials off the hotel pay-per-view and leave a researchable trail.

                Fuma looks straight ahead at the screen. “Are blow jobs a turn-off for you?”

                Kento can’t bring himself to check the video again. He can tell without looking that one guy is quite vocally enjoying himself, to the tune of some truly disturbing slurping sounds that he hopes is not being made on actual human skin. He keeps his shudders to a minimum as the noise from Fuma’s speakers get steadily more obnoxious. It at least sounds like it’ll be over soon, unless that actor plans on keeping up that high-pitched whining for much longer.

                Just as he presumes he’ll be in the clear soon enough, he catches Fuma very deliberately dragging his free hand down to his groin, and palming himself over his jogging pants. “… _Really_?!”

                “I suggest going back to your room if this requires too much of an open mind for you.”

                “You can’t be serious?!” Kento chokes out, eyes glued to the motion of Fuma’s fingers clutching and releasing subtly but unmistakably.

                “I could say the same for you. Thought you’d be able to take care of yourself at a time like this.” Fuma lunges forward to place his laptop down on the bed below their feet, then reclines so he’s laying back down next to Kento. He splays his newly freed hand flat on Kento’s stomach and prods him backwards, firm but careful.

                Unthinkingly, Kento follows suit until his spine molds to the pillow beneath him. Fuma wastes no time in gliding his hand downward, inching lower without hesitation.

                Kento grabs Fuma’s wrist with both hands in a painfully tight grasp, but not actually stopping him. When Fuma’s hand grabs a hold of its prize, Kento exclaims, a breathy little number not too far from what he’d been mentally deriding the AV actor for just seconds ago. At least his heart is beating loud enough to block out the din coming from Fuma’s laptop, rendering it background static.

                Fuma digs the heel of his palm down, doing the best he can with his right hand. It’s enough to make Kento hug Fuma’s arm to his body, hips rolling upward into the pressure. Fuma continues to rub them both with increasing urgency, and Kento crosses his legs, clamping down on Fuma’s hand.

                Kento wants to hold out longer because their rivalry is and always will be one of his top priorities, but the counterpoint to that is that it feels too good to be touched and it’s making the chase for release seem just as urgent and worthwhile. And the counterpoint to _that_ is that he doesn’t think it should be feeling _this_ good. His mind has fizzled into futility as he argues himself in self-contradicting loops, not functioning cleanly enough to question the way Fuma flicks the knot of his jogging pants loose, fumbling with the obstructing layers of cloth so he can touch his partner where needed. Every thought evaporates to make way for a primal instinct to dig his heels into the mattress and thrash up into the circle of Fuma’s fist, whimpering as Fuma uses the slickness collecting at the tip to smoothen the glide of his palm. Kento convulses against the younger man’s ministrations, emitting a hypocritical moan that Kento-from-five-minutes-ago would’ve sneered at.

                It vaguely registers when a tongue licks a wet stripe on the palm of his own hand and is guided to Fuma’s lap, but he is rudely awakened to reality when his hand is made to unceremoniously settle on a foreign hardness – in some ways familiar, and in other ways, new. Fuma’s hand closes over his, making Kento wrap his fingers around the heavy shape of it. Barely five or so repetitions of a sloppy stroking motion has Fuma kicking his legs out and throwing his head back, making a porn-worthy noise of his own – softer and shorter, but no less fitting for a group of their name.

                When Kento catches his breath and regains the capacity for a fleshed-out thought, the first thing he asks is if they’re still at 3-3, which Fuma lazily confirms.

 

-

 

                The score is at 10-9 in Fuma’s favor when they quit keeping score. It’s around the time Kento finally got to ask if things were getting too weird. Vocalizing the need to dial their efforts down may have prompted them to abandon their scoreboard, or it could’ve been thanks to the numbers hardly ever changing anymore.

                The straw that it took for Kento to broach the topic was when he and Fuma crossed yet another inconceivable line. That day, they found themselves in the confines of a closet, ironically enough, making the most of their time offstage as Shori performed his solo. Kento hadn’t thought much about his trousers and underwear falling around his ankles since they’d since progressed to shedding clothing in their chase for ultimate triumph, but he hadn’t anticipated Fuma taking him into his mouth. He was rendered dumbfounded with arousal when Fuma held on to his hips and pitilessly kept tightening the hot suction around him, fervent determination more than making up for his inexperience. Under such attention, it took a humiliatingly brief time for him reach his peak, but he reasons later that it was a good thing, since they had to rush back for costume changes. Besides, it was far more mortifying for him to spy Fuma fishing out a single strand of dark hair from his mouth. For crying out loud, he could’ve trimmed or done something to tame the, er, _wildness_ down there, had he been given ample time and warning to prepare.

                He got over that embarrassing image in time, but the memory of Fuma’s plush lips circling his length would not leave his mind. The way they slid down to meet the tight grip of Fuma’s fingers replayed in his head like a broken and NSFW record. The nagging memory of it eventually forced him to approach Fuma and demand that they have their long-postponed conversation. And although he predicted Fuma’s response correctly (he gets accused of quitting just in time to not have to reciprocate), he was still unable to put a stop to things going off-course. All sincere discussion was terminated in favor of proving themselves to one another, as usual.

                The day after that is no better for Kento and his quest for a Real Conversation, but this time the blame falls entirely on him. He’d woken up with an audibly battered throat coming out of their encounter, and they only have 24 hours to rehearse their songs on a brand new stage, on top of having to master how to get from one area to the next. When Fuma learns of Kento’s condition, he swears up and down that he hadn’t meant to inflict such damage on purpose. Kento already knows this, but feels entitled to his anger all the same.

                Fuma tends to leave Kento alone and sort himself out after an argument. Kento guesses that that’s his motive for announcing to everyone during a rehearsal break that the Juniors are looking for more playmates. But when Marius asks if Fuma’s coming along, he says he’s more interested in getting the room to himself so he could catch up on sleep. Marius makes a face and dashes off to catch up with Shori and Sou, leaving their oldest members to themselves.

                Once they’re gone, the room is much quieter. Fuma still manages to sneak up on Kento, who jerks when all of a sudden there’s a feather-light graze of a finger tracing his throat. “Hasn’t gotten better?” He turns to see that there’s quite a serious look on Fuma’s face, and it makes him scowl. His physical discomfort isn’t trivial, but it doesn’t warrant that kind of expression.

                He catches Fuma’s hand, yanking it away from his neck. “Stop it with that face,” he says as authoritatively as he can while sounding like he’s on his deathbed. “You’re taking all the fun out of having something to lord over you.”

                Grudge or not, he’s still physically unable to let go of Fuma’s hand – he’s a sucker for tactile comfort, after all. Fuma must be feeling really guilty, because instead of pulling away, he only interlaces their fingers together. Kento can’t be sure if it’s a part of their game or if he’s genuinely looking to offer comfort, and decides it must be more of the latter. And he’s spent much of his life construing the meanings behind Fuma’s words and gestures, so he has reason to believe in his interpretative abilities.

                Fuma must feel like he singlehandedly caused their current minor rift, and that’s got to be why he’s in here permitting unrestricted affection. This basically amounts to groveling in the younger man’s book. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it. Well, the part where they’re holding hands in private is new. Kento wonders if he’s imagining Fuma’s grip on him tightening.

                “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you can’t boss around other people’s thoughts.” Fuma’s voice is soft, like he’s singing the first verse of one of their gentler ballads. It’s Pavlovian at this point for Kento’s knees to get weak when that voice in that timbre reaches his ears.

                “I don’t appreciate you stifling my potential.”

                Fuma chuckles easily, and it signals to Kento that his partner had been well and truly concerned about not being in his good graces. “So you know, the story is that we went out to karaoke and I forced you to sing a heavy metal song. You’re in the clear with our manager, which is just blatant favoritism on her part, but there you have it.”

                Kento is ready to let him know that he’s in the clear too, that Kento’s forgiven him, but Fuma muffles his words of gratitude with a kiss. “Save your voice, idiot,” he says before making sure that Kento complies with his recommendation. Kento idly thinks that this part is rather new, too.

 

-

 

                At the end of their tour, Kento extends an act of kindness – though not a truce, never that. He’d sensed Fuma’s sporadic longing for a respite from their more X-rated capers, and he offers to provide it in the form of a home-cooked dinner.

                Kento makes a simple pasta dish that caters to both of their tastes, and buys a different brand of beer for each of them. Fuma tucks into the meal the second after he kicks off his shoes at the door, and Kento berates his manners with the usual amount of fondness. They talk about work for a while, and it melts away into nostalgic reminiscing about the last trip they took together, and how they’re going to outdo it on that mythical vacation they’ve been ambivalently planning for the past two years.

                The normalcy of their dinner is refreshing. The moment Kento wants to flirt a bit, it doesn’t ruin the harmonious atmosphere in the slightest. He takes one end of a spaghetti noodle and brings it to Fuma’s lip, looking to reenact the classic scene from _Lady and the Tramp_. Fuma obediently opens his mouth so Kento can feed him the noodle, but as soon as it gets past his lips, he slurps it up and eats the entire thing. It makes Kento laugh, but he insists on doing it, and asks to try again.

                After he gets Fuma to comply, Kento grins maniacally as he slowly chews his way down the middle, waggling his eyebrows and telepathically asking Fuma to do the same. Fuma dons an expression of disgruntled resignation when he finally nibbles down the noodle towards Kento’s end. Kento’s grin stretches impossibly wider, until it closes to meet Fuma’s tomato sauce-slicked lips.

                “Tramp,” Fuma says, after they pull apart.

                “That makes you the lady,” Kento retorts cheerfully.

                Fuma brings up the insult again later in the night when he spots a pack of condoms on Kento’s desk. “You really are a tramp.”

                Kento can’t be sure, but there might be an underlying hint of judgment and disapproval there. “I don’t know how far we’re taking this,” he says in his defense. This elicits a giggle from Fuma, which only agitates him more. “It’s better to be safe, just in case.”

                Fuma shakes his head. “I bought them, too.” From his pocket, he digs out a similar-looking square package and a small bottle of lube.

                “You did.” Kento blinks. He narrows his eyes, despite the smile breaking out over his face. “You even brought them with you tonight.”

                “You bought dinner for the occasion, so I thought…” Fuma trails off. “There had to be a reason you were being a gentleman, right?”

                “Only the best for milady.”

                For all the sexist jokes he cracked that night – revenge for the one-sided taunting in their youth, really – Kento’s the one who ends up seated on the other’s lap. The alcohol in their systems accelerated the night’s progression, but their movements are relaxed and unhurried.

                Perched over Fuma’s thighs, Kento has to make the effort to remove his clothes as quickly as he can without harshing their mellow mood, just doing what it takes to avoid channeling major Vegas showgirl vibes. It’s a lot harder than it sounds, and the way Fuma stares at his every move makes it that much more difficult.

                Sliding his arms across Fuma’s shoulders, Kento tips forward so that they’re chest-to-chest. The action makes the V of his legs angle wider, devoid of shame when his already half-hard erection nestles against Fuma’s belly and pelvis.

                Fuma plants a hand on his back, prodding him to move even closer. The hand drifts a few centimeters lower, fingers brushing the bottom of Kento’s spine. “You haven’t tried this?” Fuma asks, surprised by the look of panic that flits over his partner’s face despite best efforts to fight it off. When Kento doesn’t answer, he quietly offers, “Want to try it on me first?”

                “ _You’ve_ tried it?” Kento demands.

                “Just, by myself,” Fuma mumbles placatingly, barely audible. “It seemed natural as far as what was coming next.”

                Kento is torn between finding him cute and finding him patronizing. “Okay, and you’ve decided just now that I couldn’t possibly take that on.”

                “Okay, wait.” Fuma squares his shoulders and looks him in the eye. “Don’t look at it that way. It’s fine if one of us backs out right now. There’s no winning or losing, not with _this_.”

                “It’s not like I haven’t been psyching myself up for it.”

                “…I know you think that sounds reassuring, but it really isn’t.”

                “Oh, shut up! I’m not going to beg you for it.” Kento abruptly reaches for the lube and the condom on his dresser, rubbing Fuma’s hardness with his own as he does.

                Fuma shivers from the contact, looking a little helpless pinned by Kento’s weight. “I’m telling you, we don’t have to go through with this. Really. I-I’ve gone too far before, and that’s not going to happen again. No one loses if you want to stop,” he says, back to stammering with Kento moving strategically against him. He gapes at the condom now in Kento’s hands, slender fingers moving hastily and bypassing further discussion.

                “No one’s stopping unless you want to stop.” Fuma’s gentle warnings give way to choked moans as Kento rolls the condom over him.

                While he hasn’t admitted to himself in so many words about what these past few weeks have revealed to him, Kento will readily admit to being enamored with Fuma’s often underplayed consideration for others. That, coupled with the stunning picture he makes with his parted lips and lust-darkened eyes, whittles the vestiges of Kento’s restraint. He has to focus his energy on not babbling stupidly about how beautiful and wonderful Fuma is, lest it scare him away.

                Within minutes, it’s his own fear he has to deal with when he feels Fuma’s slicked fingers slide over his tailbone. Fuma biting his puffy bottom lip distracts him momentarily, and he tries to focus on the alluring sight instead of the odd sensation of being prepared. He feels Fuma’s knuckle brush the flesh on his backside as it eases its way inside him.

                Kento startles when Fuma brushes a spot that makes his toes curl and body practically vibrate, and accidentally kicks the back of Fuma’s calves with his heel. “Do you need to add another?” he groans out weakly as Fuma eagerly attempts to prod the same spot and recreate that same reaction. Only the unfamiliar, dull discomfort is keeping him from embarrassing himself as Fuma’s finger breeches him experimentally.

                “Probably two,” Fuma answers, sounding pained to admit that he has to delay it for a bit longer. One more finger joins the other, carefully crooking and making Kento groan past bitten lips and hook his ankles behind Fuma.

                After a third finger works to stretch him open, Kento blurts out the unequivocal opinion that he is ready, and that Fuma ought to do something about it. Fuma obediently replaces his finger with the tip of his cock, urging Kento to bear down on it. Obligingly, Kento sinks down slowly, allowing Fuma to penetrate him inch by agonizing inch.

                “You’re doing great,” Fuma says, his tone nothing short of sincere reverence, forgetting to limit his praises as his brain-to-mouth filter gets deconstructed by the intimacy of their position. He lightly caresses Kento’s thighs to give his encouragement any possible way he can. “You’re fucking perfect, fuck.”

                After Kento manages to take in all of Fuma for the first time, he lets out a shuddering breath. He looks up with his head completely tilted back, letting the moisture that gathered in his eye fall inconspicuously (he hopes) from the corner.

                “Okay?” Fuma asks him, voice tight. He sounds so pained from the restraint he’s exercising that Kento’s heart swells in his chest.

                He quickly wipes his cheek and starts to grind down, so slowly at first that he’s not sure if it counts as moving. His hands turn into fists behind Fuma’s back, unfurling and clawing as he rocks shallowly. “Be better if you moved with me,” he fights to gasp out.

                Hands pinning Kento’s thighs down, Fuma surges up while keeping them joined as tightly as possible. Kento captures his lips, moaning shamelessly into his mouth as Fuma makes helpless noises right back at him. A loud cry rips out of Kento’s throat, unbidden, when he and Fuma move a certain way and he seems to light up from the inside from a pleasure both sharper and sweeter than he’s ever known. Kento hitches himself up and slams back down, rolling his hips to discover all sorts of sensations from having Fuma move inside him in new angles.

                Fuma meets him with upward thrusts, picking up intensity when he pinpoints how he’s making Kento cry out and shake. There’s little finesse to it, but the forceful speed he puts behind each thrust has Kento keening incoherently. He winds his arms around Kento, holding him to his chest as he moves to bury himself as deeply as he can with every roll of his hips, alternately sharp and deep.

                Kento sobs when Fuma mouths at his ear and helps him bounce on his lap with abandon, until he’s thrusting against Fuma’s abs for friction, smearing the other man’s stomach with how wet the tip has gotten. He’s wailing out sounds resembling Fuma’s name when he finds his release, one that’s so intense it properly knocks the wind out of him. He starts to get lightheaded as Fuma doesn’t relent, pounding into him with unceasingly rising desperation. Without any conscious effort on his part, he tightens around Fuma, answering the other man’s needy recklessness with reassuring touches. Then Kento asks Fuma to come for him, and he answers by cursing impressively before gasping and holding onto Kento in a crushing embrace.

 

-

 

                “You know, this still counts as a tie,” Fuma murmurs.

                “Or did we both just win?” Kento asks, sounding satisfied with himself, though his throat feels scratchy and raw again.

                “That’s called a tie,” Fuma deadpans. He’s not very convincing when he’s idly running his fingers through Kento’s sticky hair.

                “I don’t know what the latest score is anymore,” Kento points out around a drawn-out yawn. “10-9?”

                “10-9, my lead.”

                “After tonight, I’m not sure what one of us would have to do to earn a point.”

                He thinks Fuma might have dozed off when only silence follows his question, but he replies eventually. “First one to confess loses.”

                “That’s not fair!” Kento snaps his mouth shut when he realizes it sounds like he’s incriminating himself.

                Fuma acts like he hasn’t, more interested in keeping their banter going. “How is it unfair? Did tonight make you fall in love with me already? Could it be that I was so good that you’re desperate to put a ring on it now?”

                “Don’t be gross. It’s rigged because you’d sooner give up your lungs than talk about your feelings.”

                “I’ll make it easy for you and get my ring size tomorrow.”

                Kento snorts before yawning again. “As if I’d do that for a person I’m not even dating.”

                “What, is that your way of asking me out?”

                “Of course not. If that’s what I was doing, you wouldn’t have to ask to confirm.” Kento uses that saccharine voice that Fuma claims to hate, cooing, “Why, do you want me to? Was I so good that you want to seal the deal?”

                “I was actually going to say, that would be pointless.”

                “Always the charmer, aren’t you.”

                “We’re already dating, in case you didn’t notice. I never actually thought you’d do this sort of thing with someone otherwise – I mean, I was kidding when I said you were a tramp.”

                Kento would sit up if he weren’t so boneless. “…What?”

                “It always has to be some big production with you. Seriously, when we’re all old, I’m writing a full expose about your romantic fail out in the real world.”

                “What do you mean we’re dating?” Kento persists. “We weren’t even into guys a month or two ago.”

                Fuma laughs. “Sure you weren’t. But hey, congrats. We both know I’m the best you’ll ever have.”

                Kento forgets to deny that they have, indeed, essentially been a couple for a long enough time that he probably should have noticed sooner. He’s also powerless to deny Fuma’s second assertion, but it’s the part that’s easier to address. “Don’t say that sort of thing yourself.”

                “Why not? First of all, you can’t hide it from me, but also, you made it pretty damn obvious how much you liked it.”

                “Well, you liked it, too.” For all his bravado, Kento still has to check, “Right?”

                Fuma glares at him, plainly asking through his facial expression how he could have possibly left any room for doubt on that. “Looks like there’s work to be done.” After a short pause that’s still long enough for Kento to fret for no reason, he says, “It’s fine, confidence is gained with practice. It’s like singing. As your partner, I suppose it’s my job to help out. Just give me another hour and—”

                Kento stops him there, and makes a counter-offer to pass out and wake up whenever they deem ready. “Knowing the both of us, we might not even wake up in time for rehearsals.”

                Fuma agrees in his own way. “Good to know you’re aware of some of your limits, after all.” He sounds half-asleep, himself.

                “Shut up and go to sleep, babe. Did you set an alarm for tomorrow?”

                “So which is it, go to sleep or set the alarm?”

                “Just set it already. Please,” Kento adds belatedly.

                “Of course you’d still be bossy even when we’re post-coital,” Fuma grouses tiredly as he does as is requested of him.

                “Thank you,” Kento says. “So what exactly am I supposed to be when I’m post-coital?”

                “Next to me,” Fuma slurs. He sounds so out of it, and Kento surmises that those words just slipped out of him.

                “Huh. You know, that sounded a lot like a confeshh-mphhh!” Fuma uses his pillow to muffle the rest of the allegation and smoosh the beginnings of a smug grin. He releases Kento before the other man can fully get an indignant whine out, and tries to be cool about the little kiss he drops on Kento’s hair as a covert apology.

                Kento whispers “10-10” with a small, sleepy laugh.


End file.
